Chapter Eight
Honor
The rest of the week flies by quicker than I expect it to considering half of it is spent trying to translate what people’s comments mean on the team’s social media pages.
I have to use Urban Dictionary to figure out why some women are “simps” for our center, Akira Mendell, or if some people forgot to finish typing their comments when they leave one letter responses like “W” or “L” during our weekly polls.
I also learn that the word “bet” has nothing to do with betting, and that “living rent-free” doesn’t pertain to actual rent.
I haven’t felt this old since my neighbor’s daughter in Chicago asked me why I had tinsel in my hair. It was a silver strand. My very first one. Zoe, the extroverted eight-year-old, will be happy to know I’ve gotten at least ten more since her discovery of the first.
Other than my newfound revelation that I am, in fact, getting older, it’s been a good week.
I’ve been getting praised by Karina for the photographs I’ve been taking, and the work I’ve been doing online.
And maybe part of my good mood also has something to do with the banana bread that is way better than I expected thanks to its chocolate contents.
Life has been…okay.
Up until today, anyway.
Today, a ping of hurt stabs me in the heart as I close my laptop after my telehealth visit with Dr. Hobart ends.
I already knew what she was going to say about the scans I did two weeks ago.
My body told me it wasn’t good long before I got the email alert about the tests in my online chart being ready.
Over the past few months, my periods have been more irregular than normal and accompanied by horrible cramping and back pain that ibuprofen can’t touch.
But those are only some of the symptoms I’ve dealt with.
Don’t get me started on the travel tweezers I have to carry with me to pluck the stubborn hairs on my chin that grow in a little too much thanks to my hormone imbalance.
I’ve tried every trick in the book to get rid of them and am thankful to have the money for treatments that are dermatologist recommended.
But I know the results could be temporary as long as my diagnosis continues to worsen.
I didn’t have the heart to look at the results before the appointment with my gynecologist because I knew I’d be consulting Dr. Google and spiraling at whatever WebMD said.
As suspected, Dr. Hobart gave me a sympathetic “I’m sorry” accompanied by the warm smile that told me she was genuine, but the apology doesn’t change the facts.
My PCOS is advanced, and the only way to ease the pain is yet another surgery to remove the cysts, or a total hysterectomy to eliminate the problem altogether.
And the thought of officially losing my chance of having biological kids hollows my chest. It isn’t something I’ve thought too deeply about.
Not in a long time, at least. Max and I were young when we got married, and I knew we weren’t ready for that step.
Then things started going sideways between us, and my health made it feel like that option was unlikely.
Now…maybe it really is.
The crack in my heart that my divorce left behind stretches, deepening the wound at the unknown certainties of my future.
Puck rests his chin on my leg, bringing my attention downward. “Hi, buddy,” I greet, stroking my fingers through his curly, thick fur. “I’m okay. Just a little sad, that’s all.”
His tail slowly wags as he picks his head up and licks my hand. On days like these, he doubles as a therapy dog.
“What do you think? Would you want a little human sibling someday?” I ask, fighting the frown that comes with the question.
All Puck does is lick my hand again before resting his chin on my leg and looking up at me with his big round dark eyes.
My phone lights up with an unsaved number on the screen that pulls my attention from Puck’s concerned gaze.
I stand to grab water from the fridge as I press the cell to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey,” a deep, familiar voice replies. It sends goosebumps down my arms that I choose to blame on the draft from the refrigerator. “It’s Bodhi.”
My hold on the water bottle tightens as I close the door and walk into the living room. “Hi…?” The greeting sounds more like a question, making me wince as I make myself comfortable on the couch.
Bodhi’s soft chuckle fills the receiver. “I’m calling about our plans tonight since I didn’t get a chance to see you at work before you left. I’m dropping Gemma off at four, then figured I could pick you up around six thirty and get some takeout on the way to my place. Does that work for you?”
I may or may not have been avoiding him this week because the nerves of my appointment were palpable.
Not that it was hard. We don’t exactly cross paths that often unless he actively finds excuses to be on my side of the building.
Like when he delivers bread. Or when he left a Post-it note on my desk that contained his phone number so we could make plans.
I’d turned red when Karina watched me slide the paper into my purse without entering the digits into my phone.
The thought of spending time with Bodhi made me jittery for reasons that extended beyond my appointment with Dr. Hobart.
Adding his phone number into my cell felt like territory I’m not ready for.
Thankfully, Karina didn’t broach the topic afterward.
She’d simply asked me to go through my camera roll for images we could post to our website’s weekly game reel and walked into her office with a small, secretive smile.
“I had a doctor’s appointment,” I explain weakly. An appointment I really don’t want to think about right now. “I had to leave early to…” Wait a minute. “Did you say takeout?”
Did he say his place?
“Gemma has a sleepover tonight,” he tells me, reminding me that he has a parental role I may never get. My stomach drops when that realization hits, and tears blur my vision.
Do not cry, I tell myself. You haven’t decided what to do yet.
I force my attention back on what Bodhi is saying on the other end of the phone, furiously swiping at the few fallen tears that escape their ducts.
“…like to be home in case there’s an emergency.
This is her first time staying over at a friend’s place.
She’s used to going back and forth between me and her grandparents, but this is different.
If I get stuck somewhere in the city, it’ll take me twice as long to get to her. ”
I can’t argue with logic, so suggesting we go somewhere else is pointless. Which is why the only meager answer I give him is, “Oh.”
“Unless you want to reschedule,” he offers knowingly.
And damn do I ever. But what is the alternative?
Sitting here in my feels on the verge of a mental breakdown isn’t going to get me anywhere.
Neither is googling what hysterectomies are like or how expensive adoption is.
If I stay home, I’ll only sink deeper into the black hole my heart is slowly being sucked into.
Getting his help will be a welcome distraction.
At the very least, it’ll put me at a better advantage at work.
“No,” I say with an internal sigh, rubbing a hand down my damp face.
I hate crying, but it’s been a regular part of my life over the past year when I had to come to terms with moving out of the house I shared with Max, coming back to New York, and starting over.
It was scary. It still is. But I’m doing it, and I’m okay.
I’m okay, I repeat to myself, a little more firmly.
Swallowing, I wet my lips. “Sorry. It’s been a long day, but I’m still on for tonight.”
“Is everything all right?” he asks, his voice softer than before.
No. The two-letter word is at the tip of my tongue, but I can’t make it come out. Because then I’d have to explain why I’m not okay, even if I keep telling myself I am, and the state of uterus is probably the last thing my father’s right-winger wants to hear about.
So, I clear my throat in hopes my reply won’t come out watery. “It will be” is the only thing I can come up with. I’ve always believed that things happen for a reason. I may not get why I’m going through this, but it’ll work out exactly how it’s meant to.
Bodhi doesn’t push it. “What kind of food are you feeling? There’s a great Thai place near me. I eat there way too often, so I get some pretty solid deals.”
I can’t help but snort. “As if you need a discount,” I muse. If google is correct about his net worth, he’s not struggling to make ends meet.
He chuckles. “I was born to be frugal. My mother made me help her cut coupons growing up, and I still check weekly deals when I go shopping. Apparently, that doesn’t change even when you have a good contract.”
I blink as I picture him walking through grocery aisles. People probably gawk at him at the produce section, staring as he studies the ripeness level of the bananas. “You do your own grocery shopping?”
“I like grocery shopping.”
My face twists in confusion. “Who actually likes that? It’s so boring.”
Bodhi laughs. “It makes me feel normal.”
“And nobody recognizes you?” I doubt. The man is too tall, too bulky, too…hot not to be noticed. Bodhi is anything but normal.
He pauses. “Sometimes. For the most part, people leave me alone. We both know that the general population here ignores everybody around them. Taylor Swift could walk by half of New York City without anyone noticing.”
Now that is a load of bull. “Have you seen the videos posted online? The poor girl can’t even go to the bathroom without it being breaking news.”
We both know I’m right, so he doesn’t argue. Instead, he changes the subject back to food. “So, Thai? I can text you the menu and you can let me know what you want.”